


To All Dicks I've Loved Before

by Hedgebelle (Ahaanzel)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bruce never adopted Jason Todd, Canon What Canon, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Different Mentors, Epistolary, Getting Together, Good Friend Roy Harper, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Kissing, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, POV Dick Grayson, Pining, Protective Parent Bruce Wayne, Secret Identity, The Author Regrets Nothing, What is this canon you're speaking of, coffee shop is also featured, never heard of it, with a dash of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28411092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahaanzel/pseuds/Hedgebelle
Summary: Red Hood wants to get together with Nightwing but keeps thinking about Richard Wayne, the rich boy at his college. To get over his feelings for the latter (and persuaded by Arsenal) he writes him a love letter. And his two past crushes too while at it, since writing about emotions was very therapeutic and the letters weren't something he would actually send ever.But this isn't Red Hood's story. This is Nightwing's story about the three love letters he got from mysterious Jason Todd, meant for Dick Grayson, Robin the Boy Wonder and Richard Wayne respectively. All the while he did his best not to get swept up in whirlwind romance with Red Hood.Inspired by the premise ofTo All The Boys I've Loved Before.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 123
Kudos: 462
Collections: Detective Holiday Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ariabunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariabunny/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the recipient of this gift:  
> Since you like identity porn trope, I resolved to go over and beyond, and identity porn like no one identity porned before XD.  
>  ~~So sorry I wasn’t able to finish it in time TT!~~
> 
> Beta by Cirth and Epistemology ❤️.

One evening after a mission gone well, Arsenal pointed at Red Hood with his beer and, apropos of absolutely nothing, slurred, “Whassup with ya and Nightwin’?”

Taken aback by the question, Red Hood took a sip of his beer. He swirled it in his mouth once, then twice, taking his time to appreciate how cheap and watered down the shit was. They had bought it at 3 AM in a small corner shop before bringing to his safe house. The longer he took, though, the wider Arsenal’s shit-eating grin got. His friend knew exactly what he was doing.

“No idea what yer talkin’ about,” Red Hood said eventually, proud to have slurred his words only a little. He wasn’t drunk, no sir, he was not. Just a tiny bit tipsy. Not enough to wriggle any drunken confession out of him, so Arsenal was sorely mistaken if he thought he would get him to talk.

“C’moooooon,” Arsenal groaned. “Gotta be blind not to see how into him ya are!” He waved his bottle around in exasperation. “Izzz not only ‘bout how obviously you’re checkin’ him out. Ya go outta your way to _accidently_ ,” he made finger quotes with his free hand, “run into him. If there’s so much a _whisper_ of Nightwin’ or his team’s in trouble, ya drop everythin’ and run to the rescue.”

Red Hood had no good comeback to that, so he took another sip and looked to the side. Ever since Arsenal hooked up with Kory, he’d gotten it into his thick head he was an expert on all things romance and seemingly made it his life’s mission to fix Red Hood with someone – namely Nightwing. And yeah, okay, Red Hood was stupidly into Nightwing, but it was just…complicated.

“ _Oooh_ , and don’t think I didn’t hear ya on the phone, tellin’ off that li’l assassin club of yours. _Do whatcha want with the Bat, but paws off Nightwing!_ ” Arsenal did a piss-poor job imitating his menacing growl.

Red Hood felt rather offended. “And since when d’ya speak Arabic?” he asked tersely, raising a doubtful eyebrow.

“Since speech-to-text online translation apps got better, _duh_.” Arsenal huffed, pointing at his beaten up cell phone, cracked touch screen and all. “C’mon, Hood. Spill.”

He let out a long-suffering sigh. He put his beer down, not in the celebratory mood anymore. “There’s nothin’ to talk about. I dunno if he’s even,” he trailed off, cursing himself for the heat he could feel rising on his cheeks. “You know.”

“What, GAY?” Arsenal practically shouted the last word because wow, they haven’t heard him in Nanda Parbat, halfway across the world. That, plus the bastard had no subtle bone in his body.

Why was Red Hood friends with him again?

“Nah, Nightwing swings both ways.” Arsenal seemed a hell of a lot more sober all of sudden. “And he’s got rotten luck whichever way he goes, first landing himself a controlling bitch of a girlfriend, then a string of sleazy assholes who dumped him after a romp in the sheets.”

Red Hood frowned, his palms closing themselves into fists.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re an asshole too,” Arsenal was quick to reassure. “But you’re not _that_ kind of asshole.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I think you’d be good for each other.” Arsenal was nodding to himself, as if the action would lend credibility to his words. “But once bitten, twice shy and all that jazz. He’s not gonna make a move on you, my friend.” The shit-eating grin reappeared. “Despite regularly checking out your ass. And your thighs,” he added, a mockingly thoughtful look on his face.

Had he got more alcohol in his system, Red Hood would be lifting Arsenal off his feet by the throat, demanding a solemn oath that his words were true. Seeing as he wasn’t there just yet, he looked down at his feet and mumbled, “You shut your goddamn mouth.”

“But seriously, Hood. You could totally get your man and you’re not doing shit about it.” Arsenal huffed. Then he narrowed his eyes with a dawning suspicion. “Is it about the rich boy again?”

Red Hood very carefully said nothing.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me!” Arsenal groaned. “Nothing’s gonna come out of this, you said so yourself!” Red Hood was mumbling something unintelligible under his breath, his mouth making an unhappy downturn, so he made an executive decision to press the issue. “Why would you pine away for…some air-headed rich boy, who’s goin’ all hipster for old Russian - ”

“Romanian.”

“- movies, when you got a real shot with Nightwing?”

Why indeed. Red Hood – or rather, Jason Todd – had asked that question himself, helpless but to stare longingly at a cashmere-sweater-clad back of this guy in one of his classes at college, lightyears out of his league. The answer, though, was as simple as it was embarrassing to admit. “It's not like there's an off switch,” he offered, a hot blush spreading all the way to the tops of his ears.

(And to think that half of Gotham trembled before him.)

“Oh, I know!” Arsenal brightened up at whatever his tipsy brain had just farted out.

Red Hood felt it was his right to be wary.

“How about ya write a letter to the rich boy? Like, a love confession? Oooh, and to your past crushes too, if you had any!” The longer he talked, the more enamoured Arsenal seemed with his idea. “To get them, you know,” he waved his beer bottle around, and no, Red Hood didn’t know, “outta ya system, and you, my friend,” he pointed at him with his beer again, “will be all set to tap. That. Ass.”

Red Hood was actually speechless for a second. “Did you watch another teenage chick flick?” he demanded, because he had his suspicions and there was no use asking if Arsenal had lost his goddamn mind – that went without saying. “‘Cause it sounds like a plot of a fucking teenage chick flick.”

To Arsenal’s credit, he didn’t let this less-than-favourable response curb his enthusiasm. “It's gonna be _cathartic_!” He waved his bottle around again, spilling beer to the floor.

“Big words, Harper,” he snorted.

“Shut it, college degree.”

The quality of their conversation only deteriorated after that. More alcohol was consumed. Creative insults were exchanged. Arsenal fell asleep on the lumpy couch, so Red Hood decided to leave him be and call it a night.

That could have been the end of it, had Red Hood shrugged his and Arsenal’s little heart-to-heart off and gone to sleep. But he kept turning in his bed, unable to catch a wink.

Maybe Harper’s stupid idea wasn’t entirely without merit, he reasoned, frowning at the ceiling. He had never acted on his past crushes and got helplessly tongue-tied and weak in the knees whenever he caught sight of Richard Wayne’s vivid blue eyes, so yeah. Maybe allowing himself to embrace those feelings, put them into words even, would help him cleanse himself or – _whatever_ , he wasn’t a fucking therapist, nor was his civilian persona studying to become one. But the point stood.

Besides, it wasn’t like anyone would ever read any of those letters, would they?

 _Oh, to hell with this shit_ , he thought, throwing off his blanket. He switched on the lamp at his desk, then went through his drawers in search for three envelopes. With them ready, he cracked his notebook open and got down to writing.


	2. Chapter 2

Dick looked down at the envelope in his hands, his feelings mixed.

He hadn't been expecting any mail, yet Alfred had presented him with a letter at breakfast, earlier that morning. The sender was apparently Mister Haly, which, frankly, also got a raised eyebrow from Dick. While Dick kept in touch with him and dutifully followed the circus on every social media platform he used, he only ever got physical letters from his old friend twice a year – for Christmas and his birthday.

But seeing as it was early to be sending a card for the former and the latter wasn’t until next year, Dick was forced to conclude it was one of those rarer than once-in-a-blue-moon instances when someone remembered the Flying Graysons for whatever reason and it resulted in mister Haly forwarding him fan mail.

Dick let out a long-suffering sigh.

Once upon a time, he had loved receiving those. His father, proudly reading out loud the snippets about Dick ( _how is he so young and so talented!_ ), and his mother ruffling his hair, speaking in soft Romanian ( _our Robin's quite an idol already_ ) in their cramped, little trailer to this day remained some of his most treasured memories.

It changed, though, when he was at the tender age of nine and with every single letter came a crushing realisation that his parents’ legacy would not be talent or amazement, but a tragedy.

His feelings dulled over time – it does heal all wounds, after all. Still, Dick couldn’t pretend to be thrilled with another faceless stranger having a take on the broken ropes, the fall and _how awful it was_.

(Dick knew it was awful. He was there when it happened.)

What if he left the letter unopened? Or maybe “misplaced” it, say, on the pile of firewood next to the fireplace in Bruce's study? The man wouldn't mention it and the thing would magically turn into ashes.

Even as was entertaining those thoughts, Dick was delicately tearing the envelope open. People were callous, sure, but if they felt strongly enough about the Flying Graysons, after all these years, to write him anything at all...it wasn't like a soured mood would kill him, would it? Nope, it would not, and nor would it be anything a non-fat Frappuccino with caramel drizzle or some other unapologetically gay drink couldn't fix. No need to be precious about it, really.

Dick skimmed over a note mister Haly had attached to the forwarded mail. The customary greetings were followed by a short description of how a message meant for him was mixed in with the circus’ bills – no postage stamp, no return address, no nothing. Dick found it curious, to say the least, but one thing at a time - the mystery letter would not read itself.

He looked at the nondescript white envelope with _the boy acrobat in the Flying Graysons’ Act_ written in blue ink on the back. Telling himself to _just rip this band-aid off_ , Dick pried the seal flap open.

Steeling himself for the thoughtlessly insensitive and needlessly gruesome, he took out the neatly folded pages. With one last nod at himself, he spread out the paper.

_To the boy acrobat from the Flying Graysons’ Act,_

_It is customary to write “dear” in the salutation, is it not? But I cannot bring myself to address you with this word. It would feel presumptuous of me._

_You don’t know me; we never spoke. I was nothing to you but a blur lost in the sea of amazed faces on one unremarkable night many years ago. I am under no illusion you might remember that particular performance and I do realise you are a boy no longer._

_Yet, you are dear to me and in my memories, you are always that adolescent boy while I am a snot-nosed runt in the audience who cannot believe you are real. I remember being that runt, excited that my old man ~~lifted the tickets~~ took me to the show, taking in the colours, the lights. The cheers of the crowd echoed my thrill for getting this one bright moment in otherwise bleak childhood. Then, you appeared on the trapeze, full of joy and so free – nothing, not even the Earth's pull could keep you captive. There was no way you and the grit of Gotham could exist in the same world. You had to cross over from elsewhere just to dazzle this one city and...what could that little runt in the audience know about love, right? But he loved you on that evening with every beat his heart skipped – with every beat it skips even now as I am writing this letter, replaying in my mind the memory from long ago._

_I don’t want anything from you. I am not going to seek you out. You have your own life and to intrude upon it is the last thing I want. But please, wherever you are and whatever you are doing now, know there is someone out there who thinks fondly of you and wishes you the best._

_Sincerely,_

_Jason Todd_

Stuck in a daze, Dick gently folded the pages and put them back into the envelope. With great care, he placed it down on his desk, then proceeded to stare at it for a good minute or two.

 _Oh_ , was the first coherent thought that crystalised itself in the stunned blankness of his mind, _that wasn’t thoughtlessly insensitive or needlessly gruesome at all._

Something was wrong with his throat – it felt tight (why would it feel tight?) – and with his eyes too, as they were oddly...moist all of sudden. His vision was blurring a little despite his rapid blinking, but he could still see the blue ink on the envelope, forming the deceptively inconspicuous _the boy acrobat in the Flying Graysons’ Act_ and staring right back at him.

Just that. Just the addressee information where there ought to be a warning in huge capital letters, all red and maybe even sprinkled with glitter, because this piece of mail held the single most romantic thing anyone had ever said or written, or serenaded, or otherwise relayed to Dick **ever** and – _oh dear Lord_ , how was he supposed to get on with his life after reading a letter like that? How could he live with himself now, knowing this thing and the person who had written it existed?

He was tearing into the envelope again, unfolding the pages with impatient fingers, eager to run his eyes over the rushed lines of slanted semi-cursive. Dick wanted to burn them behind his eyelids along with every word they committed to the paper. He stopped for a minute to reflect upon it, and kept reading and rereading the same paragraphs. He looked at the signature at the bottom of the page, as if enchanted, his eyes following the expressive curve of the letter J, the sharp strokes of the letter T.

Jason Todd. Was it just wishful thinking or did the name actually ring a bell? Like he had heard it somewhere in passing, maybe in a setting where he wasn't paying attention, but in the name of all that is holy, _WHERE_ and _WHEN?_

 _To intrude upon your life is the last thing I want_ , this Jason Todd had written and...well. There was no easy way of tracking him down, was there? Not when dozens of people all over this country could be sharing his name and let’s face the truth, Dick couldn’t exactly mail every last one of them a postcard with an overexcited _PLEASE, INTRUDE AWAY_ and a whole tube’s worth of glitter.

Given those circumstances, he supposed he had no choice but to honour Jason Todd’s wish. He just wished he could express his gratitude somehow.

To let his mystery admirer know how much Dick needed to read his letter.

* * *

“Someone’s in a good mood tonight.”

Nightwing figuratively jumped out of his skin as a husky whisper in his ear startled him out of his top-secret, mid-patrol, rooftop boba-indulgence session. He almost choked on tapioca pearls and spilled most of his milk tea all over his suit like a dork.

Fortunately, though, the keyword there was _almost_ , meaning he did neither of those things. Years of experience in the vigilante business obviously paid off with interest, seeing how well they curbed the natural freak-out response. Except for the dramatic tightening of his grip on the plastic cup, none of his muscles so much as twitched.

Willing his heart to _calm down already!_ , he curled his lips in a Pleasant Smile Number Four. He looked over his shoulder to see grey fabric stretched sinfully over pectoral muscles, then up, to stare at a pair of lenses fitted into the iconic red facemask. Literally breathing down his neck was none other than Gotham’s own anti-hero extraordinaire and the major cause of Batman’s fuming these days – the one and only Red Hood.

 _Uh, oh_. How did he get so close without him noticing (and how did it get so hot in here all of sudden)? He commended the man for his stealth (and oh dear God, the _ripped muscles_ ).

Nightwing would have shared Batman’s sentiments, feeling threatened by a person of his skill with no qualms about killing, had Red Hood not (rocked that sleeveless, hooded vest) helped him out in a pinch on several occasions.

Nightwing could tell a hot blush was spreading over his face, just like he could tell Red Hood took notice of said blush (and it took conscious effort not to peek down at his thighs), which wasn’t good at all for very valid reasons, so he smiled even wider and said, “Hello, Hood!”

Red Hood nodded in greeting, not breaking their eye contact.

Nightwing took oh so casual step back for a much-needed briefer because the pecs were _right there_ and _oh boy!_ Had Red Hood always been this intense? “The last thing I heard, you were on a mercenary job with Arsenal.” It wasn’t easy but he did manage to keep his voice light. “Half a world away.”

“That?” Red Hood took a step closer to Nightwing’s conflicted feelings. “Over and done with.” He waved it off, a note of smugness clear in his voice.

“So soon?” Nightwing inquired and with another step away from the man his back hit the wall. _Oh god_ , he thought and held the boba in front of himself like a shield, very aware it was just the two of them on this rooftop. “Careful there.” He let out a chuckle, hoping it didn’t sound as nervous as he knew it was. “You might give me the impression that you missed me.”

Based on their prior interactions, Nightwing fully expected Red Hood to not even notice the casually flirty undertones and just stand there, wrapping the string by his hood around his finger like the innocent boy he truly was. He was thus stunned speechless for a moment when Red Hood closed the distance between them, resting his forearm on the wall above Nightwing’s head and leaning in, then went completely off-script with bold, “And what if I did?”

A pleasant shiver ran down Nightwing’s spine.

_And if you did, then God have mercy on me._

A second later he blanched at his own thoughts, batting away the thrill at the clean, masculine scent; the warmth of solid muscles in front of him; the touch of firm fingers, guiding his hand and the boba out of the way, and _oh dear_ , it wasn’t good at all. He would even go as far as saying it was bad. While he was well aware that Red Hood was interested, the man had never so blatantly acted upon his attraction, and Nightwing…yeah, he was interested too, which was precisely why he had to nip whatever was happening here in a bud.

Because, bulky, towering frame? Dangerous reputation? Batman’s silent disapproval? Check, check and _tragically_ , **check**. The hard truth was, Nightwing had a type – a type Red Hood fit perfectly – but a type that came with a pattern that always ended with him left alone in cold, rumpled sheets, his heart broken. And he was tired of being a notch in a bedpost or a name on a bucket list, or a thing to be owned. He wanted to be loved. Cherished. Told he _had to cross over from somewhere to dazzle the city_ –

Ergo, he couldn’t fall into bed with Red Hood, no matter how tempting the prospect.

No matter how deliciously charged the air between them was.

_Diffuse the situation, quick!_

He gave Red Hood a genial smile and a patronising little pat at the side of his facemask. “I’d say you’re too sweet for your own good.” Nightwing’s own good, actually, but let’s not dwell on that.

The pat obviously threw Red Hood off. Taking advantage of that, Nightwing broke away from between the wall and the (glorious) pecs – a briefer was a necessity at this point.

Once a safe distance was established, he nonchalantly slurped at his boba for the double purpose of projecting the suave and unaffected, while secretly cooling down the hot and bothered. “Something unexpected happened earlier today,” he remarked lightly, remembering Red Hood’s opening line.

“Good unexpected, I presume?” Red Hood turned around to face him but thankfully ( _yes,_ Nightwing scolded his brain _, **thankfully**_ ) the tension between them dissipated.

“The best unexpected,” he smiled, thinking back to the letter waiting for him in his room at the manor. And the photo of it he had saved on his phone. “Seeing you back in one piece is a good unexpected too, though,” he winked.

…Only to mentally slap a hand over his face right after, exasperated at his incorrigible ways. What on good, green Earth was he doing, winking?! A wise man might have once named habit a second nature, and flirting did come to Nightwing as natural as breathing, but still!

Perhaps it would be for the best if he just stopped talking? Thinking it was definitely worth a shot, he slurped on his drink. Red Hood, though, seemed strangely enraptured by the action. That, in turn, confused Nightwing for all of a fraction of a second, before he looked down at his fingers, holding the straw, and realised how that in combination with his hollowing cheeks might be giving his companion some ideas he did not intend to give.

He let go of the straw with an audible _pop_.

“Alas, duty calls!” Nightwing called with extra cheer in his voice to draw the attention away from how shaky his smile was. “Would you be a dear and throw this away for me,” he put his half-full cup into Red Hood’s hands. Not letting the man get a word in the edgeways, he hurriedly said, “gotta go, bye!”

With an awkward little wave, he took out his grappler and raced to the edge of the rooftop. What a mess their little chat had turned into – what a mess Nightwing himself was, not to be trusted to keep his own heart from being broken! But it was high time he learned from his past, ill-advised flings, and if the only way not to fall into his old pattern was to distance himself from the temptation, then so be it.

Nightwing jumped into the Gotham night, leaving unfinished tapioca pearls and a bewildered Red Hood behind.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Dick rolled out of his bed bright and early to attend the two classes he wasn’t taking online that semester. He put on an Alfred-approved combination of cashmere sweater and designer jeans ( _with all due respect, Master Dick, the clowns at Haly’s wear less colour than you do_ ), slicked back his hair and plopped his favourite triangle-shaped sunglasses on his nose. With a paper take-out cup from his favourite coffee shop in hand, his Richard Wayne look was complete.

He peered at his reflection in the front mirror. “Showtime,” he whispered, then jumped out of his convertible.

The walk through the campus, though short, provided ample opportunity to uphold his image. So he waved to everyone and anyone who called his name, generous with his smiles but not so much with the requests to hang out after classes. A little _no, wait, we’re eating dinner with a senator tonight_ here, a little _dang, I can’t do a party this weekend, I’m skiing in Switzerland_ there. Dick had discovered over the years that combined with disarming smile and an innocent flutter of eyelashes, his excuses never failed to charm people into not noticing they were being held at the arms’ length. An exasperated gasp of _shoot, can’t be late again!_ as he checked his wristwatch tied it all neatly together and Dick was free to jog up the stairs in the Humanities Department Building. He arrived at his general education class on Romanian cinema with time to spare, like always.

And like always, the grumpy guy in the red hoodie was already there, too.

Dick cheerfully ignored the fact that repeating the same action every week and expecting it to yield a different result was called insanity and greeted his classmate. “Hey!”

The guy, though, was nothing if not consistent in his distinct lack of positive reaction at Dick reaching out. He scowled up at Dick from where he sat sprawled in his chair, nervously tugging at his hoodie strings, before pointedly looking away.

Well, Dick held back a sigh, he supposed it was somewhat comforting to have one constant in this ever-changing world. He would be lying if he said the grumpy guy’s hatred of him for reasons unknown wasn’t bothering him at all. But he would also be lying if he said that he prioritised the unravelling of this mystery over his once-a-week chance to chat with the exchange students from Romania.

Seeing as they were waving him over, Dick left behind the grumpy guy, now wrapping a hoodie string around his finger while attempting to murder the floor with his glare, and went sit with them in the front row.

Their professor joined them soon after. When the lights dimmed and the play button was pressed, Dick allowed himself to relax his shoulders. With his classmates’ attention on the film, he didn’t have to be Richard Wayne. Just Dick Grayson would do – a circus kid full of complaints whenever his father suggested he spoke in English more often ( _but Dad, that language doesn’t make any sense!_ ). He missed being him sometimes, more so after receiving that letter, just like he missed the sound of Romanian spoken in his mother’s voice.

*

Immersed in the language and memories, Dick as always failed to notice a pair of intense green eyes time and again straying back to look at him.

* * *

“You got mail,” Batman told him that evening, the second he stepped foot inside the Batcave.

“…Uh.” Nightwing blinked, a clever remark on the Team’s latest mission forcibly evicted from the tip of his tongue. Batman bringing up civilian and domestic matters in their place of business was unusual, even if his matter-of-fact delivery wasn’t. “And it couldn’t wait for Dick Grayson?” he chuckled, gently pushing his confusion aside.

His eyes not leaving the Batcomputer screen, Batman handed him a white envelope. “It’s not for Dick Grayson.”

Oh, okay. Nightwing supposed he ought to invite his confusion right back then, seeing as his vigilante persona getting a physical mail was not a thing that happened. Ever. Those who dabbled in the cape business had other means of communication available for contacting him, and civilians had Twitter.

He knew Batman well enough, though, not to bother asking what he meant by not for Dick Grayson, so he chose to go with a different question as he accepted the letter. “How did you get it?” It wasn’t like Nightwing had an established address for correspondence, after all.

“Gordon,” Batman murmured over the sound of typing. Nightwing had the wildest thought that the man was purposefully avoiding looking at him. “It was attached to the Batsignal.”

Nightwing hummed under his breath, looking down at the envelope in his hand. Even as he ran his finger along the sealed flap, he was under no illusion that the letter hadn’t yet been poked, probed, scanned, sniffed and – God forbid – licked, as enforcing over the top security measures was one of the few ways in which Batman knew how to show that he cared.

He flipped the envelope over. Behind the lenses of his domino mask, his eyes widened.

There was _Robin the first ORIGINAL Boy Wonder (NOT that nerd with a Bo staff)_ written on the back in familiar semi-cursive.

“Thank you!” Nightwing said with as much cheer as he could muster, his lips curled in a Bright Smile Number Two. “I think I’m ready to call it a night.” He faked a big yawn, casually putting the envelope behind his back. “Unless you wanted my help with something…?”

Batman grunted a negative.

“Great!” He said, already walking backwards to the lift. “Goodnight! Don’t stay up too late!” He dashed inside, one hand giving a cheeky little wave, another slamming the up button.

Five minutes later he was out of the Nightwing suit, cuddled under a fluffy comforter on his bed, the door to his room locked. In equal measures astounded and excited to get another letter from Jason Todd, he pried the envelope flap open. His heart was racing as he took out the folded pages and quickly spread them out.

_To the first Robin,_

_Even now, as I am writing your alias on the paper, I can’t help but wonder – have you ever existed? Was there really a boy in green pixie boots, fighting crime with a daredevil smile?_

_Does this letter actually have a recipient?_

_You see, these days, with the Justice League all over the news and on everyone’s lips, no one is questioning the existence of heroes. But eight years ago, many still believed Batman to be a thing of fiction. An urban legend if you will, whispered about in the streets while fervently denied by the GCPD spokespeople._

_And you were a part of the mystery that shrouded the fabled Dark Knight; a part he jealously hid from the eyes of those he deemed unworthy, and unworthy happened to be all of Gotham._

_So back then, to spot Batman on his way to deliver harsh justice was…cool, I guess. But – do you even know? The real treat was to catch a glimpse of you. A kid would gain respect in the Alley, if they said they had seen you. We would gather around them and demand details, starved for the breadcrumbs of stories of how your wicked laughter was a sure sign the bad guys were in trouble. Or how you bested grown men in combat, your teasing remarks making their defeat ignominious._

_For all we knew, those kids might have been making their stories up. Still, we hung on their every word with bated breath, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Many of us, adolescent boys out in the streets, would later spend idle hours fantasising about meeting you someday. Then, at night, we would toss and turn without a wink of sleep, feeling so terribly confused. Because, why? Why would we see YOU behind our eyelids when we thought about kissing? You, and not some girl that we thought we liked...?_

_I met you once, you know. Or maybe it was the longing I couldn’t name just then that conjured you on that evening, when I hid myself in an alleyway, a stolen wallet in my pocket, my first cigarette in hand._

_You appeared out of nowhere, hanging upside-down on some rope, black and yellow cape spilling down from your shoulders. You plucked that cigarette from my fingers, voicing your disapproval of nasty habits, no doubt, but your lips were right there and they looked so soft as they curled in a teasing smile, and for the life of me, I could not hear a single word you said._

_I reached out to touch you, to close my hands around your wrists. I wanted you on the ground with me. I wanted to trap you in my embrace and take your kisses until you had no choice but to take them back, and – it was just a blink of an eye, I swear! Yet, in that split second, you disappeared like a ghost or a dream._

_I didn't smoke my first cigarette that evening. I did something else for the first time, biting my lips so not to call your name when my toes curled in pleasure. You had me in your thrall from then on. Did you even know? That the memory of your teasing smile made me resent every boy I kissed for not being you._

_So many things have changed while I was away. Batman now walks in the light, a public figure, and some kid who is not you (doesn’t even hold a candle!) dares to call himself Robin._

_Nobody knows what happened to you. Nobody knows where you are. If chasing you had been like gathering breadcrumbs before, now it’s like trying to catch smoke. But who knows? Maybe you weren’t really there to steal my cigarette and my heart. Maybe you had always been just a dream._

_On the chance that you hadn’t, I hope that you are safe and happy. I hope that you hung up the cape because you wanted to and passed on the mantle out of your free will. If you walked away from that life, I will respect that. To trouble you or disturb you had never been my intention; only to say that you will always have a special place in my heart._

_Robin. The Boy Wonder. My dream lover._

_Sincerely,_

_Jason Todd_

Dick reached blindly for the glass of water on his nightstand. He downed it in one go, fanning the collar of his T-shirt with another hand, but he still felt feverish. His thoughts were a tangled hot mess, because oh boy, there was so much to unpack in that letter he didn’t know what to lose his mind about first.

It was one thing to get a sweetly innocent confession addressed to his childhood self. To get an intimate, bordering inappropriate missive, unexpectedly (but how delightfully!), and read that he had been someone’s first in...that way was –

Dick didn’t even know what it was. All he did know was how flustered he felt, unable to stop picturing the scene. A shadowy alleyway; a faceless stranger giving into teenage lust, biting back the moans of his name – and Dick should be finding all this creepy, yet there he was, biting back a moan too, failing to repress a thrilled little shiver. Now, years too late, because while that had been happening, Dick was doing – what? Cartwheels on the nearby rooftop, like a happy child oblivious to what was going on down below!

Dick couldn’t get over the fact how clueless he had been. For pity’s sake, Kid Flash had been calling him the teenage heartthrob of Gotham and the moony eyes the Alley kids had been giving him weren’t exactly subtle.

Why had he written the former as teasing and the latter as hero worship? To think he could have been figuring things out with them instead of falling into that fiasco of a relationship with Babs! Or later, rushing into romance and getting his heart broken by every owner of chiselled jaw who gave him a glad eye and Bruce didn’t approve of.

Speaking of – oh dear God, no, BRUCE. Dick felt dizzy, his face rapidly palling in horror or colouring up in mortification, or maybe doing both these this at the same time somehow, because what were the chances he hadn’t read this letter? Vanishingly small to begin with, was what they were, but given how Bruce wouldn't meet his eyes back in the Batcave, Dick could safely say they were non-existent.

Dick hid his face in his hands. They needed to have a conversation about boundaries – _privacy_ and boundaries. And by conversation he meant an impassioned monologue he would deliver in front of Bruce, who would be dying softly inside, looking everywhere but at him as he remembered what the Alley kids had done while thinking about Dick, and Dick would know exactly what was on his mind. So on second thought, maybe he should take a leaf of Bruce’s book, resolving to never breach the subject, ever.

...That was more or less what went through Dick’s mind in the span of two seconds after he finished the letter. Beneath the thick layer of freak-out, however, was the big question, even more urgent now than before.

Just who was Jason Todd?

Dick was able to piece together (gather breadcrumbs, ha) some valuable information from what little the man had let on about himself. He had lived in Gotham at some point – a fact that would help narrow down a list of all Jason Todds that walked the soil of the United States of America. He and Dick had met – a revelation that threatened to fry Dick's brain, in no small part because there had been so many Alley kids he had tried to deter from smoking that none of their faces remained in his memory.

Neither of those things, however, shed any light on the reflection that baffled him the most.

Why did Jason Todd's name sound so awfully familiar?


	4. Chapter 4

As much as Dick wanted to dive right into his search for the mysterious Jason Todd, the following days found him insanely busy for a myriad of reasons that started with _B_ and ended with _ruce_. If he wasn’t at Mount Justice dealing with the endless string of emergencies, then he was hopping between associated teams, smoothing the feathers Batman had thoughtlessly ruffled. His college coursework was crammed into any moment of relative peace he managed to get, and whenever he finally had a minute to just hear himself think, he would get summoned to the Watch Tower, his insight on the Justice League business suddenly _invaluable_.

But Jason Todd and his letters were always there, in the back of his mind. All it took was to let his thoughts wonder for a second – or for someone to mention Red Hood – and Nightwing could feel himself getting flustered to the confusion of everyone around him. The one time it happened during a meeting at the Watch Tower, it triggered a devastating chain effect of Wonder Woman expressing uncharacteristic motherly concern ( _are you running fever, young Nightwing?_ ), Batman looking _this close_ to committing a coldblooded murder and thus, the whole Justice League in uproar.

Before he knew it, it was Thursday morning again. Dick startled awake from where he collapsed in a heap of a T-shirt he hadn’t fully put on and the suit he hadn’t fully taken off. His cell phone was blaring with Alfred’s customized ringtone, the butler (bless his soul!) calling him to ensure he wouldn’t oversleep. Chatting on the phone ( _yes Alfie, I’m awake_ ), he shrugged on his set of Richard Wayne-appropriate spare clothes. Then, cracked the door to check if the coast was clear – he knew it was awful of him, but right now he could not provide shoulder-to-cry-on services for another sidekick trainee Batman glared into tears. Satisfied that none of them were up and about just yet, he made a mad dash for the zeta tubes, so ready to get back to Gotham.

He barely made it in time. Slightly out of breath, he curled his lips in the Sheepish Smile Number One as he walked into the classroom, hoping to divert the attention from his imperfectly pushed back hair and the missing takeout coffee. His sudden arrival startled the guy in red hoodie out of the glaring session he had going on with Dick’s empty chair. A cheerful little _hello_ earned Dick a mighty scowl in return.

Ah, the tranquillity of the predictable.

“Psst, hey!” One of the exchange students whispered in Romanian, when Dick took his usual seat in the front row. Their professor was greeting the class as she set up the projector. “This was laying on your chair when we got here this morning.”

Distracted, Dick nodded his thanks and without looking, took the proffered item. It wasn’t until the lights were dimmed that he spared it glance – and he had to bite his lips not to gasp out loud.

It was a white envelope. On its back, there were three words, formed with the curves and sharp strokes of a handwriting so familiar Dick saw it in his dreams that past week.

 _To Richard Wayne_.

The sensible thing would be to wait for the class to be over. That, or risk a few raised eyebrows as he excused himself to the washroom, the letter smuggled out under his cashmere sweater. As he was, though, Dick couldn’t seem to remember what the word _sensible_ meant in English language, nor could he recall the Romanian equivalent. Putting on his best nonchalant act, despite feeling feverish hot all over, he discretely tore the envelope open under his desk. He took a casual look around to make sure his classmates were focused on the film, and with a racing heart he unfolded the pages.

_Dear Richard Wayne_

_Please, allow me the indulgence of calling you my dear, just this once, under the disguise of proper letter salutations. In real life, I would never dare to address you as such. You and I, we live very different lives in very different worlds. They do not collide and our paths do not cross unless some freak accident happens or gods throw the dice to amuse themselves, which is rarer still than once in a blue moon._

_For the longest time that was fine. You were a smile on the cover of the Gotham Gazette I rarely bought or a name mentioned on the red carpets I couldn’t have cared less about, and I was okay with that. I would have been perfectly content, lived a long, fulfilling life not knowing just how blue your eyes are._

_But now I know and I can get no rest._

_I didn’t want to fall for you. I tried to fight it, God knows how I tried. I thought myself strong before, you know? But when I saw you on that bright morning, the sun kissing your golden skin like you were its beloved child, it was a swift defeat that I suffered, swift AND sordid. You smiled at someone behind me and I was as weak as a new-born kitten; all my strength gone just like that, with the flutter of your long lashes. By the virtue of doing absolutely nothing at all, you tore feelings from me. By merely existing at the same time and space as I did, you made me another victim of your charms._

_If only you were nothing but a pretty face, I might have been saved. But no, you couldn’t give me this one courtesy, could you? There is so much you keep hidden behind the curl of your lips and none of that is happiness._

_Rest assured, your act is top-notch. I’m just not easily blinded. I can see the well of sadness in you and how hard you work to keep it out of sight. Yet, it peeks through the cracks in your demeanour whenever you think you are safe, sure that no one is looking. Why do you guard it so fiercely? Why are you so afraid to show the world how Richard Wayne truly feels? Did someone hurt you? If someone did, I would beat them up ~~into a bloody pulp~~ for taking away your happiness, and then some more for how they did it. Because you had been happy once, I think. I saw you stare into the distance, a wistful look in your blue eyes. Like you were reminiscing about better days, now gone forever._

_I wish I could guide you away from your shell. I wish you’d let me do to you what spring does with the cherry trees. But all I can give you in return is my heart and…why would you need that, right? With one look, you can have anyone you want on their knees, ready to worship the ground you walk on. You belong with the rich and famous in the high life of glitz and glamour, not a nobody like me with a penchant for fucking things up._

_I don’t want to burden you with my affection. I’m putting my feelings into words only once, on this very paper. I vow to say it here, then forever hold my peace._

_I adore you._

_Yours,_

_Jason Todd_

Dick had no idea how he managed to sit through that class.

His fingers were trembling when he folded the pages and put them back into the envelope. Contrary to the years of Batman-certified training, deep breaths weren’t doing much to calm him down. He felt raw. He felt stripped naked and examined under a magnifying glass. Dick prided himself on his act, always in control of how others perceived him despite lacking superpowers. But Jason Todd somehow saw right through him.

…But Jason Todd fell in love with _three different people_ , ALL OF WHOM were **Dick**. That did not compute. Dick's mind officially wasn't wide enough to wrap itself around that. It was different when it was about just Dick Grayson and Robin, seeing as the latter was his secret identity, but now Richard Wayne was added to the mix?!

Didn't Jason Todd know that Dick Grayson and Richard Wayne were one and the same? Despite it being all over the news when Bruce had taken him in? Despite the story being rehashed _ad nauseum_ whenever Gotham Gazette ran out of page four gossip material until Bruce unleashed the dogs of Wayne Enterprises' legal department on them? Had Jason Todd really missed all of that?

Oh, so what if he had? There were way more pressing issues to fixate on, such as – what were the odds? That someone, ANYONE would be so into him, they would fall for every persona of Dick's ~~(sans Nightwing)~~ they had encountered?!

Finding this Jason Todd wasn't a whim at this point. It was a necessity. An imperative. To hell with what Bruce, the extended Cape Community, his lab partner, his professor and the world at large thought! Dick would be skipping his afternoon class to abuse the resource known as Batcomputer, and even if Jason Todd hid on the bottom of hell, Dick would track him down! And once he did, he would tell him… Dick felt butterflies in his stomach as he reread that paragraph.

He would tell him to _please_ , do to him what spring did with cherry trees.

Then, he would tell him off for that piece of tripe he wrote shortly after. What did Jason Todd mean, implying he wasn't good enough for Dick? Dick didn't even know the man and he felt outraged on his behalf. If Jason Todd thought even for a second he could bail out of meeting him by talking himself down in such a manner, then he was sorely mistaken, the poor summer child. One did not simply say they adored three different versions of Dick and got away with it, no sir, nope.

That was not how it worked.

The class finally ended. Dick was ready to bolt from his seat and race to his convertible, unable to put off his search any longer. The lights switched back on and he nervously tapped his foot, because his professor took out their assignments, ready to give her feedback.

“Overall, you did very well.” She smiled at the class.

 _Cheers_ , Dick thought, impatient.

“But I believe one student, in particular, deserves a shoutout.” She craned her neck to look at someone sitting in the back row. “Jason Todd, stellar work as always.”

Time stood still.

As if in a dream, with the name _Jason Todd_ echoing endlessly in his mind, Dick followed his professor's line of sight to look over his shoulder at the guy in a red hoodie, slouching in his seat and quickly looking away from Dick, his face suspiciously flushed.

In that one moment of absolute clarity, Dick understood all. In his mind's eye, he saw the universe being born; electrons buzzing in a cloud of probability around an atom's core; the stars being born then dying in a supernova blast; a kid who had once gone to a circus, faring for himself on the streets of Gotham and growing into the grumpy presence in the back row of his Romanian Cinema classroom, just... _there_ , this whole semester, and –

And Dick rarely cursed, but _what the actual FUCK?!_

“Class dismissed.”

Dick jumped to his feet, onto his classmate like a bloodhound.

“Hey, Jason!” He called. The man in question froze in an awkward position, half sitting, half standing. “Wait up!” He marched up to him, the Deranged Grin Number One making an appearance on his face on its own accord.

Jason obediently waited, as their classmates trickled out of the room. Straightened up to his full height, Dick noticed, he was...wow, as tall as Red Hood.

“Do you have another class after this?” Dick commenced an attack as soon as he was at his side.

“Um,” Jason gaped down at him for a second, before he shook his head, scowled and glared at his feet. The tips of his ears were red. “No?” He asked his shoes because it certainly didn't seem like he was addressing Dick.

“Splendid!” His grin grew even wider. “Let’s go grab coffee together!”

Jason blinked in incomprehension. “Wait, what?!” He spluttered and if he was to entertain some silly notions like... _running away_ , Dick was there to nip them in a bud. He closed his hand around Jason's wrist and proceeded to half-drag him through the campus to the closest coffee shop. Not that Jason gave much of a resistance. On the contrary, he followed Dick like an incredulous sheep, seemingly struggling to catch up with what was happening.

Ten minutes later they were sitting at a cosy little table – perhaps too cosy, since their knees kept bumping underneath and whenever that happened Jason honest to God jumped a little. Dick was unwittingly channelling an old-school mafia boss as he stared at Jason, unblinkingly, over a cup of his non-fat latte with extra whipped cream and caramel drizzle. Meanwhile, Jason squirmed in his seat, not daring to raise his eyes from his small, plain Americano. He was tugging the hoodie string he had wrapped around his finger, giving nervous energy off in waves.

 _Here goes nothing_.

“So,” Dick put his coffee cup down once he took a sip, gentling his expression into something less predatory. Jason stole a glance at his face. This close, Dick could tell his eyes were green. “It came to my attention that you might be the author.” Dick put the envelope on the table, the handwritten _To Richard Wayne_ on its back like a damning piece of evidence. “Apologies, if I got Jason Todds mixed up.” He pushed it closer to Jason.

The man took one look at the letter and all colour drained from his face, the smattering of freckles on his nose in sharp contrast with pale skin. His jaw slackened as disbelief mixed with pure horror took over his features. When he found his voice again, it trembled with barely concealed emotion, when he said, “that fuckin’ bastard!”

Now it was Dick's turn to blink in incomprehension. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“You weren’t supposed to read this,” Jason mumbled under his breath, colour flooding his face right back, with vengeance.

“Oh.” While Jason's embarrassment (and his curly hair) was cute, Dick couldn't help feeling a bit taken aback. “I wasn’t?”

“My idiotic friend insisted that I wrote about my feelings. Like, in a love letter,” Jason managed to maintain eye contact for all of ten seconds, before shying away. “To get over you,” he added in a much quieter voice. “He must've stolen it, that asshole.”

The crushing disappointment was knocking on his door, but Dick wasn't letting it in just yet. Not when he had spent every stolen moment these past days reading Jason's letters. Before he could give himself a chance to overthink it, he fired, “did it work?”

“What?” Jason frowned, forgetting about his mortification for a moment.

Dick rested his face on his hand. “Did you get over me?”

Jason didn’t say a single thing to that, and honestly? He needn’t have. The way his fingers tightened around his coffee cup or how his scowl deepened as he looked to the side – not to mention the awe that brightened his eyes when he thought Dick wouldn’t notice him stealing a glace – all of that spoke louder than a thousand words. And it told Dick everything he wanted to know.

“I would like to get to know you better,” Dick said with a smile because it was true. Jason was surprisingly shy and kind of endearing with how flustered he got around him, and above all – he was very into Dick, but not selfishly so. Dating a civilian was bound to come with its own set of problems, of course, but Dick was willing to give it a try. Besides, if Jason wanted to be a spring to his cherry trees, then maybe he wouldn't go breaking his heart like everyone else had.

(Looking like he could bench press Dick certainly wasn’t hurting either.)

Jason gaped at him. “Why?”

Gee, which one of the ten thousand reasons he should give him? _“_ Because no one had ever wanted to do to me what spring does,” Dick answered without missing a beat.

The freckles on Jason’s nose melted into the hot blush that washed over his face. “I don’t know,” he squirmed in his seat, unsure. “I don't have much free time…” He trailed off helplessly. Dick was getting an impression that Jason was desperately trying to talk himself into turning him down. “I, um. I work long hours...?” He offered, tugging at the hoodie string.

Dick raised a sceptical eyebrow. Like that was supposed to – what? Send him running for the hills, screaming? Well, tough luck. If anything, the thought of an honest boy, who worked to put himself through college _and loved his three different personas_ , only served to charm Dick even more.

“How about next week, then? Same time, after our class?” Dick strongly suggested the Pennyworth Style. “So that we can chat a bit longer?” He looked at him, hopeful, from under his lashes.

All air left Jason in one long exhale. “Yeah, okay.”

Oh, wow. Now, if that wasn’t a rapid-fire reply, after all that hesitation. Dick wonder briefly where it went, not that he was complaining. “Alright!” He cheered, delicately picking up the letter. He was so not done rereading it just yet. “It’s a date!”

Jason choked on his coffee.

“Seriously,” Dick gave him a conspiratorial wink, once Jason got his breathing under control, “it is.”

Floating out of the coffee shop on cloud nine, Dick didn't give any thought to the little crease between Jason's eyebrows that marred his incredulous look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me [here](https://hedgebelle.tumblr.com/).  
> Not much in there, but feel free to say hi :D.


	5. Chapter 5

As wicked luck would have it, on the eve of Dick’s date with Jason, Nightwing ran into Red Hood.

“Look who decided to grace Gotham with his presence,” Red Hood greeted him with a tip of an imaginary hat, leaning casually against the parapet near his favourite Gotham gargoyle. Judging by the plethora of crushed cigarette butts at his feet, he had been there for quite a while already, clearly expecting Nightwing to make an appearance.

So much for his mid-patrol, rooftop boba-indulgence sessions being top-secret, Nightwing stifled a sigh.

“Hi, Hood!” He called and by default, his lips curled themselves in the Bright Smile Number One. Despite his best efforts not to, his eyes strayed from Red Hood’s face to his powerful thighs.

...And so much for avoiding the temptation.

“Haven't seen you in a while.” Red Hood crossed his arms over his chest. “You okay?” He asked and if Nightwing didn’t know better, he would say it was genuine concern that coloured his voice.

“Aw, were you worried about me?” The words were out of his mouth before he even realised he was talking, like a cursed, knee-jerk reaction to the bulging biceps, bared for his ogling pleasure. What was wrong with him, Nightwing lamented, why was he unable to NOT flirt with the man, for god’s sake, he had a date with a sweet boy _who loved him_ the next day.

“Yeah,” Red Hood admitted, no playfulness in his tone and no hesitation.

At that, Nightwing could only blink. Then blink and feel the heat rise on his cheeks, because that short answer was, well...surprising, with how sincere it seemed. Not to mention way sweeter than anything he would have ever imagined coming from Red Hood.

Something that felt like a knot wound around his heart eased a little.

“I’m, um…” He trailed off, strangely wrong-footed.

Red Hood kept staring at him, waiting for a serious answer. With that single-minded focus on him, Nightwing found it a tad difficult to focus himself. He briefly considered taking a sip of his boba, just for the additional few seconds to gather his thoughts but decided against it. After their last encounter, the innocent action seemed weirdly lewd.

He cleared his throat instead.

“I’m fine, I guess? Just…busy.” Though admittedly, this past week not nearly as much as the one before, because Batman somehow found out about Dick making contact with Jason Todd and – lo and behold! Suddenly Nightwing's insight on the Justice League's business wasn't as _invaluable_ and neither was his assistance at Mount Justice needed every five minutes.

Beg pardon Nightwing's French but _coincidence his butt_.

“You know, saving the world. Assuring Superman that Batman didn’t mean it when he called him an idiot.” Spending quality time out of Gotham, so away from Bruce's dramatic brooding – his go-to emotional expression when disapproving of Dick's life choices, especially romantic ones.

“The usual stuff,” Nightwing summed it up with a shrug.

It might have been just him, but the tense line of Red Hood's shoulders relaxed a bit.

_Nope, that's just me_ , he told himself firmly, _no reason to beat any faster, heart. No reason at all_.

“Thanks for asking, though.”

Red Hood nodded. He continued to stare at him from the respectable distance of his perch by the gargoyle, which would have been totally fine if it weren’t a one-eighty from the way he had acted during their last meeting. Granted, his bold actions _then_ had also been in stark contrast with the prior Red Hood behaviour, so the point was, Nightwing felt very confused right now.

“Say, how is Arsenal?” He asked the first thing that came to his mind, eager to lighten the air between them to something less...whatever it was right now. “No one seemed to have seen hair nor hide of him lately. Is he okay?”

Red Hood snorted. “He pissed off the wrong guy and got his sorry ass beaten up for it.”

“What?!” Nightwing blanched. “Oh my God, is he okay?!”

“Nah, he’ll be fine.” Red Hood waved him off and frankly, Nightwing found his lack of concern very concerning.

“But -”

“HE’LL BE FINE,” Red Hood repeated more forcefully and that was the end of discussion.

“If you say so.” Nightwing raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. He had spent enough time around rough and tough men in his life to know when not to press an issue. “So, how have _you_ been?” He changed the subject. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Red Hood said curtly. “Actually, no. It’s nothing.” He was quick to assure as if sensing the incoming wave of concern. “Just some...stuff.” He raised his hand to wrap the string by his hood around his finger. Nightwing frowned at the gesture. “That I need to figure out on my own.”

“Oh.” Nightwing tore his eyes away from Red Hood's hand. “Well, if you’ll ever need my help with that, you know where I drink my boba.” He raised his cup in a mock toast.

“That I do.” Red Hood let go of the string in favour of his grappler. “See you around, Nightwing.” He got to his feet and with one final nod, he jumped into the night.

Nightwing would have liked to say that he shrugged their meeting off, cheerfully slurping boba and hyping himself up about his date. But even later that night as he readied himself to bed, his thoughts kept circling back to Red Hood.

* * *

Next morning, Dick was up before his alarm clock, doing what Alfred usually referred to as _primping_. He carefully selected a cashmere sweater for the day. He made sure his hair was neatly brushed away from his face. He smoothed out every non-existent wrinkle of his outfit, pressed to perfection. And if Alfred's _good luck on your date with Mister Todd, Master Dick_ almost made Bruce break a plate in half while cutting his pancake, then that was for Dick to snicker about and for Bruce to _never read his letters again_.

Dick walked on air his whole way through the campus ~~, blissfully ignorant to the choir of catcalls and a guy walking into a lamp post~~. He took two steps at a time, climbing up the stairs in the Humanities Department Building, his coffee sloshing dangerously in the takeout cup. Unlike the week before, he reached his classroom with plenty of time to spare.

Jason was there already and so was his scowl. Though this time, it was paired with the widening of his eyes and the reddening of his face at the sight of Dick and the sound of his cheerful little _hi_. Delighted by the new quality it brought to their weekly interactions, Dick would have loved to stay right there, staring back at this wonder of nature who fell for him _three times_.

Alas, the exchange students from Romania were waving him over. They did not bother to hide their giggles, prompting Jason to frown at his shoes, displeased with their attention. “Go talk in Romanian with them,” he grumbled. “I know you want to.”

That sweet, considerate boy! Dick's heart would have melted, had it not been a pile of goo already. “See you after class!” He promised with a genuine smile and got to his seat.

His friends were on him like a pack of vultures.

“So tell us, Richard,” the girl on his left said in a conspiratorial whisper, “what's the deal with you and _Red Hoodie_?”

Momentarily, Dick was at loss for words. A kaleidoscope of butterflies fled from his stomach as cold dread edged at the corners of his mind. “I’m sorry, what?” He quickly schooled his expression to that of polite confusion. There was no way she had meant _Red Hood_ , was there? Because if she had, it would imply his secret identity had been compromised – he only ever interacted with the man as Nightwing – and although Dick did have a contingency plan prepared for such eventuality, he would rather not –

“You and the guy in the back,” she jabbed her thumb in the general direction of Jason, now raising a suspicious eyebrow at them. “The one that’s always in a red hoodie.”

Oh. Okay. Of course.

Dick discreetly breathed a sigh of relief. “We’re going on a date today.”

The exchange students let out a collective gasp of surprise.

“Praise be!” The excited cry from the girl on his right was a keynote of the enthusiastic response from the Romanian-speaking population of the class. “I have no idea how that guy’s getting straight As when all he does in class is moon over you!”

“What?” Dick let out a solo gasp of his own because _excuse him!_ Had he been living in some alternative version of reality up until now? Since when was Jason's crush transparent and Dick's situational awareness so rubbish he missed the big, glaring obvious?!

...Oh dear God, Dick was aghast at the thought, what if there were other things he failed to notice, distracted as he was by the sound of his first language? But the worry didn't take root in his mind, drowned out by delighted cooing of his friends ( _you'd make a cute couple!_ ), then washed away by how precious Jason was, pretending that he wasn't sneaking worried glances at Dick.

And Dick didn't know how to deal. With each letter, the defences he had put around his heart were meticulously taken down, the rubble swept away by the quiet adoration that asked nothing in return.

So when his professor started the class, Dick just sat there, watching the film with unseeing eyes. The dialogues were a pleasant rumble of Romanian that held no meaning, in one ear, out the other. He thought it a sophisticated kind of torture, to see the minute hand of the clock move so slowly when he could feel the tell-tale pinpricks at the back of his neck. Time and again, the green eyes of the impossible guy in a red hoodie were on him, Dick knew that _now_ and couldn't get over how on Earth he had never noticed before.

He only snapped out of his incredulous daze once he sat down in front of Jason, in the same coffee shop as last week, at the same too cosy table.

*

“So,” Dick said when five minutes into their date it became apparent that Jason was more than happy to just sit in silence and watch the steam rise from his cup of humble Americano. “Why did you sign up for a class on Romanian cinema?” Dick looked at him from under his lashes, toying absent-mindedly with the straw in his Matcha green tea frappuccino with raspberry syrup and extra whipped cream. He supposed their class was a safe enough topic for the opening question since it was one thing he knew for sure they had in common.

“It looked interesting and it fit into my schedule,” Jason said with an awkward little shrug.

He was picking at the loose threads from a huge rip in his jeans, Dick noticed with the corner of his eye and hid his smile, taking a sip from the straw. He could easily imagine Jason agonising over his wardrobe, then scoffing at himself for caring too much about their date and putting on the first thing he got his hands on as if to make a statement.

“But, um. You,” Jason stole a glance at Dick, flushed, and hastily went back to the studious observations of his coffee. “You speak Romanian.”

It wasn't a question, but for the sake of keeping their conversation going, Dick decided to pretend that it was. “Yes. I'm half-Romanian, actually. On my mother's side. I rarely spoke English at home before...” Dick trailed off. While on the paper it would be a perfect opportunity to bring up his circus background, the Flying Graysons especially, he had an inkling his shy boy would not survive having that bomb dropped onto him just yet. “Before Bruce Wayne adopted me.”

Jason nodded to his steaming Americano. Dick felt irrationally jealous of the blasted drink.

“I don't get to speak Romanian very often, so the class is a little self-indulgence on my part, I suppose.” Jason looked him in the eye at that. Dick internally cheered. “Language IS something you can miss. You know?” He smiled.

Jason flushed. “Yeah, no, I get that.” For a moment it seemed like Jason maybe was going to elaborate on that, but nope, that appeared to be it.

…Okay. Change of topic, then.

“Last time, you said that you are working. And you mentioned long hours.” Dick propped his chin on his hand – an excuse to lean in a bit closer to Jason over their cosy table. “What is it that you do?” He asked, thinking it a perfectly valid first non-cape date question.

Except perhaps not. Dick saw the nervous fingers on Jason’s knee still; when he looked up to his face, he was blinking away the dear-in-the-headlights expression.

“Uh, Jason?”

Carefully avoiding eye-contact, Jason picked up his coffee and took a sip.

Then another.

And another.

And one more.

And Dick was freaking out now, his mind coming up with increasingly alarming scenarios behind Jason's reluctance to share. Was he involved in some shady business? Was he in indentured servitude to a crime lord, forced to pay off a debt of his parents'? As much as Dick wanted to write these ideas off as unlikely, they lived in Gotham. Things like that were known to happen.

“Jason?” He prompted again, putting both his palms on the table as he leaned in even closer.

Jason set down the empty cup with a _clank_. One hand coming up to wrap the hoodie string around his finger, he looked everywhere but at Dick. Squirming in his seat, he frowned at the barista; scowled at a hipster wanna-be writer with a vintage typewriter; finally, he glared through the window at the construction work on the other side of the street.

“I am, uh. A blue-collar worker.”

Dick's shoulders slumped in relief.

Yeah, okay. A blue-collar worker – a construction worker, perhaps? Whatever it was exactly, it was an honest job and Dick couldn't help but picture his sweet, romantic boy in a helmet, all sweaty and bare-chested, showing off what his oversized hoodie hid.

“Oh,” Dick said, feeling very warm all of sudden. He rested his cheek on his palm again, hoping to make his blush less noticeable that way. “That's...” _Hot_ was what he wanted to say, but he bit his tongue just in time. “Cool?” He eventually offered, when no other adjective tore its way through the haze of hot and bothered.

Jason nervously tugged the hoodie, the tips of his ears red.

Oh God, he wasn't embarrassed or something, was he? Dick longed to assure him he had no reason to be and if he were here as himself or as Nightwing he would do so in a heartbeat. But unfortunately, he came here as Richard Wayne, in his cashmere sweater and clout of privilege. From him, Jason could take such assurance as condescending, which was not something Dick wanted him to think ever.

“You're, um. Not at the campus very often.” Jason offered an olive branch, striking up a conversation himself.

Dick gave him a grateful smile. “I'm studying part-time this semester and I take most of my classes online.” Since Jason did not comment to that, he went on. “I probably should enjoy my college days more, but I've been pretty busy lately,” he said, thinking about the piling cases and requests for assistance from the Justice League.

At least Bruce laid off his misguided, overprotective endeavours now that the ship had sailed and Dick got himself a date with Jason.

Jason hummed. “With the Wayne Foundation?”

Pssh, as if. The job there was hardly time-consuming, though it did provide a sound excuse that quietened uncomfortable questions. “Yes. Among other things.” Dick easily agreed, the Bright Smile Number Three firmly in place.

Jason blushed and looked away to contemplate the bottom of his coffee cup. Dick wished he would loosen up a bit. How is he supposed to give him a goodbye kiss, if he's on the tenterhooks around him?

“What are you studying?” Dick changed the subject again, crossing fingers that this one would incite Jason to speak up about himself.

Jason chewed his lower lip. “I major in social work. And I took easy minors...” He trailed off, furiously tugging at the hoodie string.

“Which are?” Dick pressed, tearing his eyes away with an effort for Jason's lips. He found them delightfully full.

Jason squirmed in his seat, jumped a little when their knees bumped under the table, then finally mumbled under his breath, “English and Arabic.”

Dick blinked, not quite having expected that. “You know, not many people would call Arabic an easy minor.” He remarked, always a firm believer in giving credit when one was due. Also, he was hoping that with a little praise Jason might feel more inclined to elaborate on the subject, for Dick sensed a story there. Adding to that precious few breadcrumbs Jason had dropped here and there in his letters, he was burning with the need to _know_ (and then kiss).

“Uh.” Jason seemed somewhat distressed at the sight of Dick, literally on the edge of his seat. “When I was, um...on my own.”

_When he lived on the streets_ , Dick remembered the second letter, meant for Robin.

“One night, I ran into... _someone_. And they took me in. So I lived in an Arabic-speaking environment, for a couple of years.” Having said that, Jason sealed his lips and pointedly looked away.

Dick had so many questions.

“And then, you came to Gotham, to study social work,” he summarised what Richard Wayne was in the know about. “Why?”

Jason shrugged. “Even if it's a shithole, Gotham's home.”

Dick nodded, encouraging. A captivated audience to whatever Jason was willing to share.

“People here don't care that the system's broken anymore,” he said after a full minute of just frowning at the tabletop. “'Cause Batman's here and _surely_ he will make things better. But all the old Bat does is to pick a kid out of the frying pan and thrust him into the fire.” He kept wrapping and unwrapping the hoodie string around his finger, his tone surprisingly bitter. “It's not like you'd know about that, though.”

_Au contraire_ , Dick believed he had a good idea what Jason was referring too. He had still been Robin at the time when Batman got a few Alley kids a spot in Ma Gunn's School for Boys, so when the truth about this institution came to light, he was there to see how devastated the man was.

Jason was right about one thing, though. The goings-on in the grittier part of Gotham were not something the billionaire's son and high society darling Richard Wayne would be privy to.

Dick had never hated his public persona more than at that moment.

“Look,” Jason scrubbed a hand over his face. “Can we...not talk about this?”

“Oh. Yes, I mean. Sure.” There was an awkward lull in the conversation. “How about, um.” What Dick longed to do was to envelope Jason in a hug and stroke his hair until his green eyes brightened and his frown gentled. But Dick had been ridiculed one too many times for his _touchy-feely ways_ by his exes and seeing the closed-off body language of Jason's, he wasn't sure it would be welcome. “How about I tell you a bit more about myself?”

Wordlessly, Jason nodded.

Okay, then. “I'm a business major.” Dick forced his lips back into the Bright Smile Number Three. It felt painfully fake and by the furrowing of Jason's brows, he could tell that he caught onto that too. “Bruce insisted. But just business would bore me to tears, so I added a minor in criminal investigation. I chose it because,” for Robin turned Nightwing, that was a quintessence of an easy minor, _but that was not something Richard Wayne could say, was it?_ “I binged-watched all the CSIs, back when I was in Gotham Aca -.”

Jason didn't appear to be listening to him anymore. He focused his attention on his empty coffee cup as if he intended to set the thing on fire by the power of his scowl alone. “This was a bad idea.”

“-demy...What?” Dick gasped, his eyes wide.

Jason sighed. “I'm sorry,” At last, he was looking Dick right in the eye, no fidgeting, no blushing, and Dick couldn't properly appreciate it. His heart was beating too fast. “I'm sorry that my stupid friend meddled with your life.”

“I don't…?” Dick trailed off, unsure what he _didn't_. Didn't know what Jason meant? Didn't know where this was going? There was an awful, sinking feeling in his stomach that rendered both a lie.

Jason gently took his hand. He had curious calluses on his palms but his warm skin felt nice against Dick's chilled fingers. “Everything I wrote in that letter is true, but I wrote it to get over you. This wouldn't work. Our lives are too different.” He hesitated for a moment, “and there is someone else I want to be with.”

Even if Dick had anything to say to that, he wouldn't be able to get a single word out around the lump in his throat.

Jason squeezed his hand. “Again, I apologise. And I thank you for your time,” Jason said, so sincere it hurt. “Please, take care of yourself.” He delivered the final blow, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand.

“No, wait -!” Dick found his voice when his hand fell back to the cold tabletop, but Jason was already hefting a backpack onto his shoulder. He was walking away – a tiny bell rang when he opened the door – and Dick's heart wasn't just broken. It was stabbed right through because Jason was gone and not once had he looked back.

So much for being the cherry trees to anyone's spring, Dick thought, rapidly blinking at his unfinished frappuccino. And maybe his exes were right, deeming him good for one thing only. It was hard to shrug off their assessment (despite what Dick's friends had to say on the matter) when even _Jason Todd_ decided he would rather be with someone else.

It was fine, he told himself as he picked up his things, readying to leave. Given his past track record, dealing with a broken heart and gymnastics were two things at which Dick was proficient.

Still, something told him that a gallon of ice-cream and Bruce’s _kill me now_ expression, as his shoulder was cried into, would not help this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know right 😭.
> 
> You can find me [here](https://hedgebelle.tumblr.com/).  
> Not much in there, but feel free to say hi :D.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a ride from start to finish.

“No boba tonight?”

Had Nightwing not already startled at the familiar voice in his ear, then he definitely would have at the firm hand that came to rest on his hip. Even without looking, he could tell it was Red Hood who had snuck up on him. _Again_. Though this time at least Nightwing had an excuse of not paying attention, lost as he was in unhappy thoughts while watching the dusk settle over Gotham. 

“Hey,” he said, trying to discreetly squirm away from Red Hood’s touch. The attempt proved unsuccessful – the pendulum had apparently swung from _at a respectable distance_ scarcely a day ago to _all in Nightwing’s space_ right now, and so he found himself trapped between Red Hood’s bulk and the parapet he’d been leaning against. “I’m not really in the mood for boba.” He said, his voice heavy with meaning, for his favourite mid-patrol drink only opened a long list of things he wasn’t in the mood for. The sympathy in Alfred’s kind eyes was up there too, second only to the grim-faced Bruce communicating through deafening silence how he had always known this _Jason Todd fellow_ was bad news. And now, that hand on his hip earned itself a spot on the list. While the touch on its own might have been innocent, the intention behind it wasn’t. 

“Not in the mood, huh? Isn't that a shame.” In a show of boldness that clearly had impaired his ability to read the room, Red Hood got even closer. His hand moved up to sneak its way around his waist and Nightwing’s breath had to hitch when he felt firm muscles press against his back. He both loved it and he hated it, and who knew what it might have led to, had Red Hood offered only a day later – 

Except that Nightwing knew exactly to _what_ , as well as to _where_ and most importantly, _with whom_. For the sad truth was, he and ill-advised rebound hook-ups were bitter old friends. He could see himself pressing back into Red Hood’s chest, knowing full well it would bring nothing but regret because his exes had been right all along. He wasn’t good enough for romance, _but for a quickie on a rooftop, he’d do._

Just…not tonight. Not when the memory of a shy, romantic boy walking away was so fresh in his mind and hurt so much. 

Nightwing wriggled out of Red Hood’s hold and took a couple of steps away too, for a good measure. 

“So, um.” Nightwing racked his brains for a safe topic that steered clear of the flirting territory. “What brings you here?” Looking up at the lenses in Red Hood's mask, he suddenly remembered their last conversation. “Do you need help, after all? With that stuff you had to figure out?” He asked distractedly, the Bright Smile Number Four notably absent. Nightwing didn’t think he could summon even a mockery of it. 

Not that Red Hood paid any heed to that fine detail, Nightwing wasn't thrilled to notice, since he was closing in on him again. For all his troubles, Nightwing found himself crowded anew, this time against his favourite gargoyle.

“Nah, I got that,” Red Hood informed him in an extra husky whisper. His breath would tickle Nightwing’s ear, if not for his facemask. “Turns out I knew what I wanted all along.”

“Oh. Cheers?” Nightwing deadpanned. Being in such proximity to those glorious pecs was very hot, sure. And also kind of annoying, because Nightwing did say he wasn’t in the mood, _didn’t he._

But maybe he had stuttered, as that seemed to be the impression Red Hood was under. Sure fingers drew a line down Nightwing’s arm and it didn’t even matter that they left goosebumps in their wake. 

He closed his palm in a fist. 

“Yeah. How about you help me celebrate that?” There had to be a cocksure smirk hidden behind his facemask as Red Hood planted a firm hand on Nightwing’s hip yet again, making it painfully clear what exactly he had in mind. 

Literally and figuratively, Nightwing saw _red_.

“OH, FOR **GOD’S SAKE**! CAN YOU _PLEASE_ NOT DO THIS?!”

A flock of pigeons took to the skies, startled.

Red Hood dropped him like a hot potato.

“Sorry!” With the choked out word, all the boldness slash confidence drained from Red Hood. Left behind was imposing form in a sinister getup, almost tripping over his feet in the haste to vacate Nightwing’s personal bubble. 

Nightwing would find it endearing, if he weren’t in the throes of exasperation, already delivering a rant. “Look, I’m flattered, I really am -”

( _Hey, you shut up, goddamn capes!_ an angry citizen’s voice could be heard in the distance.)

“…You are so very much my type it’s not even funny, and besides, I kind of like you, so I would _love_ to climb you like a tree -”

Red Hood went very still. 

“Even though climbing you like a tree _is_ the worst idea in the history of bad ideas -” 

“Wait, what -” Red Hood tried to get a word in the edgeways, but oh no. Nope. Not when Nightwing was on the roll. The camel’s back finally been broken, pushing open the floodgates. Words were spilling from his mouth and soured his mood even further, uncomfortable truth all the more upsetting when spoken out loud. 

“Because I just can’t do it anymore, okay?! I’m sick and tired of being some sort of a… A _name_ to be ticked off, or a notch, or...or a goddamn SQUARE in some cursed criminal Bingo! Like, right fucking THERE, in the middle! It’s either _free_ or _banged Nightwing!_ ”

Red Hood appeared shell-shocked. 

“And I just…!” Nightwing felt very tired all of a sudden. “A guy I really like dumped me today.”

The resounding silence was eventually broken by Red Hood, offering his feedback with an eloquent, “um.”

Nightwing dropped his gaze to the ground, ashamed. No need to worry about ill-advised rebound hook-ups anymore, he thought, holding in a humourless chuckle. No self-respecting anti-hero with ambiguous morals would want to associate themselves with him after bearing witness to that charming little breakdown. Even platonic hangouts over a cup of boba would be out of the question. Batman would find that development most agreeable, he supposed. At least for someone, the pathetic mess called _Nightwing’s love life_ was a win.

“Do you, uh.” Heavy, combat boots shuffled, uncertain. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Huh?” Nightwing rose his eyes to the inexplicable sight of Red Hood still being there. “I do, actually,” he admitted, surprised himself by the realisation and…touched, almost despite himself, by the offer. 

Red Hood sharply nodded and so two minutes later he was sitting by the parapet, at a respectable distance from Nightwing, listening politely to his stream of consciousness. 

“- like a vicious circle of toxic attachment or whatever else it is called. I mean, at some point you got to be self-aware enough to admit there’s a pattern and it’s clearly not working for you,” Nightwing babbled, lazily tossing and catching his escrima sticks for something to do with his hands. “And once you do, the logical course of action is to try and break it, you know?”

He had a feeling that Red Hood didn’t really know but nonetheless, he dutifully grunted his agreement.

“So then, there was this guy and I found out that he likes me…” Or rather _used to_ like him, Nightwing thought moodily as he trailed off. _Used to_ , as in, he had liked him once, at some point in the past. But not anymore. He had moved on from Dick Grayson and Robin, and Richard Wayne, before Nightwing in any of his personas could even get a chance to know him. The thought made him bitter and more than a little vicious, his fingers itching to find Jason’s letters and burn them.

At the same time, he wanted to hold them and keep them safe, like the precious mementoes that they were. Nightwing wasn’t loved – but he had been, with childlike wonder, teenage passion and innocent adoration. Wasn’t that exhilarating on its own? Nightwing sure was mind-blown every time he stopped to reflect on that.

He shared something along those lines out loud, just less coherent and not mentioning the letters.

“What's so great about that guy, anyway?” Red Hood broke the lull in Nightwing’s monologue with a carefully neutral question.

Nightwing let the escrima sticks fall onto his lap. “He liked _me_ , not the idea of easy hook-up,” he said because wasn’t that what his sudden attraction to all things Jason Todd boiled down to? ~~Well, that and the fact that something about him reminded Nightwing of Red Hood.~~ “And his freckles are cute.” He added with a small smile. To think just a night ago he entertained a fantasy of mapping these freckles with kisses…

“ ** _I_** _like you_.” 

“What?” Nightwing snapped his head to Red Hood at his oddly defensive statement. “You…do?” He asked, hesitant. Not quite sure he had heard that right.

“Yeah.” His legs sprawled out, Red Hood was staring at the tops of his boots. In a much smaller voice, he mumbled, “I have freckles too.”

Nightwing blinked. He had no clue what to do with that piece of information, coming from Red Hood of all people, so like a broken record he repeated, “you…do?”

To that, Red Hood offered no reply. He rose his hand from his lap -

...And Nightwing could have sworn the time itself slowed down as his focus narrowed to the thick, gloved fingers wrapping around themselves a string of Red Hood’s hooded vest.

Like marking a string of connections with a piece of yarn on an evidence board, Nightwing looked up from the string and fingers to a lock of curly hair peeking from under a hood, then back down, to the guns holsters on the powerful thighs, then up again, to a katana strapped to the muscular back – a _katana_ , to the go-to white arms of those trained with the League of Assassins in an _Arabic-speaking environment -!_

“OH MY GOD,” an exclamation broke itself free because everything was falling into place to reveal a picture so impossible it was pretty darn probable and Nightwing _couldn’t_. Just – _couldn’t_. All his _could_ s came with _not_ s attached. Red Hood was right there by his side, maybe asking what was wrong, but Nightwing’s mind was screaming, or perhaps crying, or echoing the universe's maniacal giggle at its own joke, and somehow, through the cacophony of it all, Nightwing forced out the one question that demanded an answer. “ _ARE YOU JASON TODD?_ ”

And there came the _flinch_. The-blink-and-you-miss-it, almost completely suppressed kind of flinch, of course, yet it was unmistakably there to render Red Hood’s next words a big, fat lie.

“Who the fuck is Jason Todd?”

 _Oh, don't you even_ , Nightwing thought, the maniacal giggle now spilling from his lips, _not for one fricking **second**_.

“Take off that bloody mask!” He demanded, making a lunge for it.

Red Hood dodged his grabby hands at the last moment. He jumped to the side, but Nightwing went right after him and he was _relentless_. The supposed advantage of Red Hood’s bulk was evenly matched by the sheer viciousness that fuelled Nightwing’s display of contortionist prowess, as they rolled from one side of the rooftop to another and back again in an impromptu wrestling match that would have the actual wrestlers slapping hands over their faces.

“The hell got into you?!” Red Hood threw him off his person. He jumped to his feet, victorious, only to get tackled for his troubles.

“Take. It. OFF!” Nightwing seethed. Inwardly lamenting that these were not the circumstances under which he wanted to do the deed, he climbed the man like a tree, blue-striped fingers reaching for the facemask.

Red Hood swayed on his feet under his added weight, turning his head from side to side, away from the blue-striped fingers. “Fuckin’ FINE!” He roared, seemingly at his wits’ end. “Calm THE FUCK down, I’m taking it off!”

Nightwing froze where he was hanging off of his frame.

Red Hood brought both his hands up. He fiddled with something under his hood before he removed his facemask. Green eyes glared at Nightwing, as he starred in silent reverence at the most precious smattering of freckles and the dark scowl he had come to expect every Thursday morning. “Oh my God,” he breathed. Despite the certainty from a moment ago, he was scarcely able to believe his own eyes. “YOU ARE.”

“You got me fucking compromised,” Jason growled, definitely not appreciative of the sense of wonder his bared face had inspired. “Happy now?!”

“Oh, I am...something, alright,” Nightwing muttered because _happy_ barely scratched the surface of what he was at this point. He didn’t feel his body move as he jumped off Red Hood. He was both unwilling and unable to tear his gaze away from this wonder of nature who fell for him three times, then went and proved himself even more impossible, gloriously so, by falling for him _for the **fourth time**_. And Red Hood didn’t even know that yet. Not a single clue. Not the faintest idea.

 _Misery loves company_ , they said, and Nightwing’s present state of _couldn’t_ was head over heels with the prospect of company too, for right there and then? To enlighten was his one true calling.

To enlighten was his most sacred duty.

Nightwing ran his hand through his hair, pushing the bangs off his face. “Before I became Nightwing, I was Robin, the first Boy Wonder.” He said, watching Red Hood's eyes grow wide. “And before Bruce Wayne adopted me,” he peeled off his domino mask. At the sight of his blue eyes, Red Hood’s breath hitched and then he breathed no more. “My parents and I lived with a travelling circus.” Nightwing could not resist a cheeky grin. “The Flying Graysons. You might have heard of us.”

Red Hood exhaled with a long hiss.

Nightwing took in the deathly pallor of his face and his (delightfully full) lips opening and closing, not a word uttered out loud. He had the most awful time processing the information, Nightwing hazarded a guess, so it was only with a touch of viciousness in his heart – there, where it had been broken – that he resolved to share one more revelation.

“I got all three of your letters.”

Red Hood recoiled as if slapped. The _flee_ rather than _fight_ instinct seemed to have overcome him as he hurriedly backed away from Nightwing until the parapet hindered any further attempts to escape. He slid down the short wall to hide his face, resting his forehead on his knees – big, bad Red Hood crumbled at Nightwing’s feet, slain by the sheer embarrassment of having fallen in love time and again, _and again_ , _AND AGAIN_ with one and the same person he thought to be four. His voice was muffled when he wailed, “ _I don’t want to live in this world anymore!_ ”

“Hell no, you don’t get to say that!” Nightwing was on his knees by Red Hood's side in an instant. “Not when you're here and I'm here, and you've got some explaining to do!”

Tortured green eyes peeked at him warily. “... _What's there to explain?_ ”

Nightwing huffed, not so much hurt anymore as annoyed, and charmed, and annoyed that he was charmed. “How about that thing when you broke my heart?!”

“I – what – no,” Red Hood spluttered. “I didn’t mean to!” He sat up, his back ramrod straight. “I told you those fucking letters were to get over you, because I wanted to be with, uh, you!” He argued his case, his face so red and his gaze so earnest, Nightwing could only yank him close by his vest and steal a kiss. Like a thief in the night, he pressed his lips to Red Hood’s to taste their warmth and fullness. Only briefly, only chastely, and only to worsen the itch rather than scratch it, but Nightwing could not afford to lose his head.

He had an argument to win.

“You didn’t even look back!” He accused the second he pulled back.

“Huh?” Red Hood’s eyes were somewhat unfocused. “And you have any idea how GODDAMN DIFFICULT that was?!” He retorted right back, as soon as his brain caught up on their little chat. “What, you’d rather I fuckin’ SAT THERE and LIED TO YOU? And what about you, huh?! It’s not like you -” his words came out muffled when his lips were assaulted with another kiss, “…’ve been honest with me either!” Red Hood accused, even as he leaned in, chasing after his mouth. “Have you actually watched any of the CSIs?!” He demanded once he made Nightwing breathless with a searing kiss of his own.

“As a matter of fact, I HAVE!” Nightwing kind of wanted to punish him for the dire offence of not being breathless himself, so instead he tangled his fingers in his hair. “All of them, to trash talk them with the new Robin!”

“Are you angry at me or not?” Red Hood pleaded, maybe a minute, maybe a second later, helpless under the onslaught of Nightwing’s lips on his freckles. There was no telling when his arms wrapped themselves around Nightwing, and there was no telling when Nightwing climbed him like a – maybe not so much a _tree_ but a fallen log, sure. “I can’t tell when you keep kissing me, then yelling at me, then kissing me again.”

“Oh, I’m freaking livid,” Nightwing nosed along his ear and to demonstrate just how livid he was talking, he grabbed one of Red Hood's hands and guided it from the polite _above the waist_ to the flesh _below_. Warmth pooled low in his stomach at the sound of his broken moan and the strong fingers kneading Nightwing's buttocks. “What was it that you said you did? A blue-collar worker?” He flicked at Red Hood's vest with a grin. “Seems more like a red-collar one to me.”

The answering groan was not one of pleasure.

Nightwing swatted him on the arm in a way that somehow turned into a grope. “Shut up and kiss me, my puns are awesome.”

“Didn’t say anything,” Red Hood pointed out, though he was already turning his head to oblige.

And Nightwing officially forgot that he wanted to be angry. It was impossible to be salty about anything at all, he decided, when Red Hood indulged him and his hesitant touches felt like an act of worship.

Bruce was bound to have a brooding fit, Nightwing distantly realised, at the revelation, or his own findings (whichever came first ~~, probably the latter~~ ), that the Jason Todd he didn't approve of and the Red Hood he approved even less of were one and the same, and had Nightwing dizzy with his kisses.

Oh well. Bruce would have to suck it up.

“I can't believe I've been in love with you my whole life,” Red Hood whispered. His embarrassed blush and besotted smile provided an interesting contrast to what he muttered next, “Harper’s still gonna eat dust for this, though.” 

“Arsenal?” Nightwing asked out of politeness, way more interested in a curl of dark hair stubbornly falling on Red Hood’s forehead. “He’s the friend you mentioned last week?”

“Yeah… What?!” Green eyes suddenly focused. “You know Arsenal’s identity?”

“Well, duh.” Nightwing decided it was high time to wrap that curl around his finger. “We were on the same team, back when I was Robin. I’m pretty sure he knew about Haly’s and my adoption was kind of...all over the news.”

“ _That absolute piece of shit!_ ”

“Hmm?” Nightwing blinked, unsure what had Red Hood on the verge of...either a killing spree or a mortified breakdown all of a sudden. It was hard to tell which. “What do you -?” The words died on his lips as somewhere between the beginning and the end of that sentence the little details, Jason’s comments, the delivery method for each letter – in (hopefully) the final epiphany of the evening, they arranged themselves to reveal a causal nexus, so Nightwing finished his remark with a flat, unimpressed, “ _oh._ ”

Seriously, he thought, Roy could have handled it better.

“I'm gonna fuckin' kill him!” Red Hood growled and made to stand up.

On the other hand, Nightwing reflected philosophically, all was well that ended well, was it not? And at the very least he did get three endlessly romantic letters out of this whole mess.

“Yeah, okay,” Nightwing murmured, kissing his brow, then the cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Red Hood appeared to have lost interest in bloodshed at that very moment.

“And after that, how about we send him a gift basket?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, big thank you to Epistemology, Cirth and Redzik! Without your help, cheerleading and proofreading, this story wouldn’t be the same ❤️. And of course a big thank you to all of you too, for reading this story 😊.
> 
> @Ariabunny: so sorry it took me so long to finish this story TT. I hope it was to your liking. 
> 
> You can find me [here](https://hedgebelle.tumblr.com/).  
> Not much in there, but feel free to say hi :D.


End file.
